


Can I Call You Mine (My Heart Finally Trusts My Mind)

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Bellarke, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Sharing a Bed, bellamy wants a future with clarke who woulda thought, so soft seriously man you might get a cavity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 18:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11087307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: “Don’t freak out,” he said, “but I need to get in.”There was just a moment of pause before she replied, “Why would that freak me out?”Her tone was light and easy, suggesting nothing but casualness towards the situation, but the way she wouldn’t move her gaze from her legs made Bellamy think otherwise. It made him hesitate, because making Clarke uncomfortable was one of the things he hated most, but somehow he knew she wasn’t uncomfortable with him. Just...something.So even though it was probably one of the stupidest ideas he’d had (and he had a lot of those), he got into a bath with Clarke Griffin.--or: the one where clarke falls down a hill and a plethora of Platonic Nonsense ensues





	Can I Call You Mine (My Heart Finally Trusts My Mind)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellamyisinlovewithclarke13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamyisinlovewithclarke13/gifts), [Clarkeisinlovewithbellamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarkeisinlovewithbellamy/gifts).



> yes i did manage to write a bath fic that's rated g yall can Fite me
> 
> fun story: this fic is literally because alex (aka bellamyisinlovewithclarke13) couldn't stop screaming over the idea of a bath fic, and then jokingly sent me an anon request for bellarke to take a bath, and being me i took it and wrote this. also being me, i made sure that it included as many of alex's weaknesses as i could reasonably manage (except for babies, spoiler, i'm so sorry) so if it seems outrageous then honestly i've done my job. it's also for sandy because we dragged her into the pit with us <3
> 
> (seriously y'all you have no idea how Important this fic has been to me to get right. also how long it took holy hera writing bath scenes is h a r d)

Despite it not being afternoon yet, the streets were empty when Clarke dragged Bellamy out of his apartment, for precisely the same reason she wanted to be outside—it was raining. _Pouring,_ really, which should’ve been enough for Bellamy to hold his ground and tell her no, but she pleaded with those big blue eyes and he couldn’t find it in him to deny her.

So yeah, he was pathetic. What was new.

Clarke was so eager to pull him out the door, in fact, she forgot to bring anything of use to protect from the rain—boots, or an umbrella, or even a coat. Not that _she_ minded, of course, but it was driving Bellamy crazy. Didn’t she know how sick she could get in this weather? Or how cold she would be when she got back to the apartment and remembered she had no dry clothes to change into?

With this in mind, he watched with half concern and half amusement as she jumped from puddle to puddle, trying to splash him with as much water as possible. “All right, you’ve had your fun,” he grumbled, narrowly dodging another spray. “Can we please go back inside now, before you soak through your skin?”

She spun around at his remarks, probably ready to argue, and Bellamy actually stopped in his tracks. Her face was bright from rain and filtered sunlight, little strands of blonde hair pressed to her cheekbones, shirt already soaked and clinging to her form. A churning began in his gut, much different than the low rumble of worry, and he swallowed hard against it.

“Oh, come on, Bell, we can’t go inside until you have your fun, too,” she teased, grabbing his hands and pulling him along with her. He tried to protest, but it was (of course) useless, and soon enough she was swinging him around on the sidewalk, laughing and smiling and holding his hands and by the _gods_ he was not going to survive this.

Fortunately, Clarke eventually got too tired for running and simply fell in step beside him as they meandered along the top ridge of a small hill, fingers now just brushing and her neck craned to look at the clouds and let raindrops fall onto her tongue. Bellamy didn’t find the clouds nearly so intriguing, but her face was nice to look at; all warm curves and soft edges, with a beauty mark at the corner of her lip and what could be freckles across her cheekbones if she enjoyed sunshine as much as rain.

“What are you thinking about?” Clarke asked, and Bellamy jumped at the realization she had turned her eyes to him.

“Uh, I was—” He faltered, dropping his gaze to his feet for a moment. It would be so easy to say _nothing_ and move on, but there was something about her gaze, like she was looking for something specific, like she _knew._ Knew about how he’d been fighting a raging crush-turned-something-else for her since a few months after they met; how despite his best efforts, he still wanted to kiss her until they were dizzy and wake up with her nose against his chest and tangle his fingers with hers just because he wanted to.

He was still trying to sort out what to say when Clarke’s feet suddenly flew out from beneath her, and then he had only enough time to cry out her name before she was tumbling down the side of the hill.

After a moment spent frozen in shock, Bellamy scrambled down the hill after her; it was a small slope, at least, but that slope was littered with rocks and broken bottle shards from careless passerby, and Bellamy could already feel his heart swelling with worry.

Clarke was breathing when he reached her, which put the very worst of fears out of his mind, but the pained groan that escaped her mouth as he pulled her mud-covered body into his arms was less than comforting. “Clarke?” he pleaded, not bothering to hide the tremor of panic in his voice. “Hey, Clarke, look at me.”

Her eyes remained closed, but in the way that told him she was consciously keeping them from opening—the mud, he realized. He wiped his own muddied hand on his face to clean it somewhat and then carefully scraped away the grime on Clarke’s eyelids and around her cheekbones.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, half to himself. “You’ll be fine.”

Clarke’s eyes fluttered open after a moment, finding his gaze immediately, and she groaned. “I hate being the clumsy one.”

Bellamy had half a mind to scold her for joking around at a time like this, but he knew she was trying to lighten the mood and he didn’t have the heart to dim it again. “Yeah, not your finest hour,” he agreed, managing to laugh through the knot in his throat. He looked her over again, seeing the scrapes and rips in her clothing, and swallowed hard. “We need to get you home. Can you walk?”

“Course I can,” she said easily, but the moment she tried to stand one of her legs gave out and she crumpled into his arms. “Okay, maybe not. I think I twisted something.”

“It’s a miracle you’ve survived nineteen years, Griffin,” Bellamy joked weakly, then gently shifted his grip to slip an arm under her knees with the other at her back. “All right, up you go.”

She obediently wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her face against his collarbone, and he pushed himself onto his feet. It was a little tricky getting back up the slippery hill, but once he’d made it was all flat ground back to the apartment, and he took it all at a near-run, painfully aware of the pounding rain around them and the slight chatter of Clarke’s teeth against him.

Once inside, Bellamy went right for the large bathroom, setting Clarke on the sink and tugging off her shoes to check her foot. It was swollen and sensitive, but mercifully didn’t appear broken, just twisted. There was, however, still a sizable gash and accompanying bump on her forehead, along with a tear in her pant leg and scrapes across her arms, and he ached a little for her.

“How does it look?” Clarke asked quietly, likely just to break the silence.

“You’ll recover,” Bellamy said lightly, pushing away her hair to look at the gash. At his touch, her eyes shuddered shut, and the coil of fear squeezed around his heart again. “Does that hurt?”

Clarke swallowed. “Stings a little,” she admitted, whisper-soft. “But not too bad.”

“That’s good,” he said, relieved. “We’ll have to patch it up, though. I’ve got some stuff in the cabinet behind you, so watch your head.” Obediently she ducked her head aside as he reached for a cloth and some Band-Aids; his hips bumped awkwardly into her thighs and suddenly, bizarrely, it occurred to him how intimate of a position they were in. Her toes tickled the sides of his legs, knees tucked around him; he could just barely feel her uneven breath through the soaked fabric of his shoulder. If he turned his head a little bit, they would be completely flush against each other.

Swallowing hard, Bellamy grabbed the items he’d been looking for and set them on the sink next to Clarke, pushing aside his thoughts forcefully to focus on the task at hand. He turned the bath on warm water and wet the cloth, then carefully scraped off all the grime and blood he could manage off her wound before covering it with a waterproof bandage.

Clarke stayed perfectly still as he worked, but there was something to her stillness—an intensity that made him nervous. He tried to ignore it, instead focusing on lifting her off the sink and into the tub without bumping her ankle, but that honestly made it worse, so he let her be for a moment to scrape off the muck from her clothes while he peeled off his shoes and socks.

“Don’t freak out,” he said, “but I need to get in.”

There was just a moment of pause before she replied, “Why would that freak me out?”

Her tone was light and easy, suggesting nothing but casualness towards the situation, but the way she wouldn’t move her gaze from her legs made Bellamy think otherwise. It made him hesitate, because making Clarke uncomfortable was one of the things he hated most, but somehow he knew she wasn’t uncomfortable with _him._ Just...something.

So even though it was probably one of the stupidest ideas he’d had (and he had a lot of those), he got into a bath with Clarke Griffin.

The tub wasn’t tiny, but it also wasn’t meant for two people, which meant Bellamy ended up between Clarke’s legs when he sat down. They weren’t quite as close as they’d been a moment ago – not close enough for him to catch the details in her eyes, or pick out the nearly invisible freckles on her nose – but he still found himself unable to look anywhere but her. She was bloody and dirty and exhausted-looking, yes, but by the _gods_ she was beautiful. It made his heart ache.

He forced himself to look away, instead working to get off what little mud he’d acquired sliding down the hill and watching the water slowly turn murky, but a muffled wince caught his attention.

“Did I hit your foot?” he asked, worried.

She stared at him blankly for a second. “Uh, no?”

“You winced.”

“Oh.” She paused. “It’s just—my hands.”

Bellamy frowned and she lifted one hand palm-up in answer. He cautiously looked it over and realized it had been scraped up almost as bad as the rest of her. Not the kind that needed a bandage – it looked more like a rug burn than a scrape – but bad enough that she was probably feeling a sting from the mud.

“Clarke,” he murmured, taking hold of her hand in both of his and feeling sadness slide into the place where worry had just resided. “You should’ve said.”

She shrugged, swallowing a little. “It’s not that bad.”

“Bad enough that it hurts you,” he countered, stroking a thumb over her palm with a frown. “Don’t you know not to mix dirt and injuries?”

Clarke opened her mouth, probably to argue, but he gave her a quieting look and reached for the soap bar, rolling it around in his fingers until they were lathered up. He held out his hand, and when she hesitantly gave hers, he rubbed off the mud as gently as he could before washing away the soap in the bathwater. Once it seemed properly cleaned, he got more soap and repeated the process with other hand, keenly aware of how Clarke wouldn’t stop looking at him.

“Better?” he asked, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Thank you.”

He could feel her eyes on him, looking over his face like she was searching for something, but he refused to look back—at least, until he felt her hand against his cheek. Then his gaze jerked up in surprise, the muscle in his jaw twitching beneath her fingers.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, her words belying the tightness in her tone. “You’ve just got a lot of dirt on your face, since you apparently don’t know how else to clean off your hand.”

“Hey, I was at the bottom of a muddied hill, there wasn’t exactly a handwashing station—” he protested, but Clarke quieted him and he obediently went still as she rubbed her fingers across his cheek, his temple, his jaw, so gently he might’ve believed she was doing it just to comfort him.

The moment hung in space for far too long—long enough he knew there must have been nothing left to clean, and yet her hand was still against his cheek, warm and soft and...natural, and suddenly it was all too much. He knew if he didn’t do something now, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and he would surge forward and kiss her, or tell her about all the times he’d imagined a future that was theirs, or—

“Your hair is disgusting,” he blurted, unable to think of anything else.

Clarke gave him a distinct look, lips curling up into an amused smile, but didn’t move her hand. “Your complimenting skills are still lacking, Bellamy Blake.”

He swallowed hard. “No, I meant...the mud, it’s all over in it. We need to wash it.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, pursing her lips, then dropped her hand; Bellamy’s cheek felt immediately colder with the loss. “Would you mind—I mean, I know it’s weird, but....”

“No, it’s fine, I’m happy to help,” Bellamy said, relieved to have the tension lift even a little bit. “What are friends for?”

Clarke flushed and he immediately regretted the choice of words; before he could go red himself, he stood and shifted to sit behind her, legs on either side of her hips. He left as much space between their bodies as possible—because he wanted more room for his arms to wash her hair, of course, _not_ because he wasn’t sure if he could handle having her back pressed against his chest, hair tickling his chin, close enough for him to just turn her head and....

“Okay, just stay still,” he said, swallowing hard as he cupped his hands and filled it with bathwater. “And tell me if I hurt you.”

(Bellamy could’ve sworn he heard her whisper _you never do,_ but that was probably just part of the haze of this whole experience. He alleged to ignore it.)

He poured water over Clarke’s head a few times and then lathered his hands with shampoo, slowly massaging it into the ends of her hair and working his way up to the roots. She noticeably tensed when his fingers first touched her scalp and he paused, worried there was another injury, but she mumbled it was just a little sensitive from the fall so he kept going, a little gentler, massaging the product in the best he could before washing it out. While he did so, she busied herself with poking the plug controlling the shower with her foot.

It took a while for her hair to look clean again, and by that time he felt like he’d used all the shampoo and conditioner he owned, but he didn’t really mind. He piled it atop her head to wash away the dirt that had gathered at her neck, failing horribly to ignore the way she shivered under his fingers, and cupped water in his hands to wash the last of the dirt and product from her hair.

At this point, Bellamy knew he should’ve been getting out, but a selfish part of him really didn’t want this...whatever it was, to end. He stalled for a moment, unsure, and without thinking brushed his thumb over the space between her neck and hairline; Clarke flinched in surprise, her foot jerking up and catching on the plug, and a moment later they were being sprayed with shower water.

The showerhead had been adjusted high enough that most of the water went directly into Bellamy’s face, so he wasn’t sure why it was Clarke who shrieked, but he didn’t have time to care because in the next moment Clarke twisted to look at him, laughing and spluttering, and then their noses brushed and suddenly everything went still.

No noise could be heard except their own breathing and the water, which was now mostly going to the back of Clarke’s head as she straightened to look at him eye to eye. She wasn’t laughing anymore, but her eyes still danced with amusement and...something.

Quietly, Clarke reached up and brushed away his now-soaked curls from his face; his eyelids fluttered half-shut involuntarily, body going completely tense for a moment. There was something in Clarke’s eyes that excited him, and scared him, and made him want to pull her closer.

But he also knew the risk that entailed, and there was nothing he was scared to risk more than what he had with Clarke. He _couldn’t_ lose her, not on a chance.

So instead of kissing her, Bellamy leaned in just slightly, drawing her attention, and then splashed her.

She shrieked again, a surprised but happy sound, and made to splash him back, but he caught her hands halfway through the action and then surged to his feet, grabbing the showerhead to angle it right at her face. Clarke retaliated by grabbing his ankle and pulling, sending him and half the water in the tub flying, and then they were laughing and splashing and making an absolute mess and somehow, Bellamy felt something in his chest sliding into place.

Once there was too little water left to splash and they were sufficiently exhausted, they finally turned off the shower and unplugged the drain. Bellamy rechecked her ankle and bandages, enough worry seeping back in to make him terrified he’d hurt her, but they were no different than they’d been before, so he helped her out of the tub and gave her a towel to start drying off lest she started getting cold again.

Bellamy dried himself off just enough to not track soapy water around the house before slipping out to check on the weather. The rain was pouring down even worse than before now, with a nice addition of lightning and thunder since, you know, the universe hated him, and he frowned.

“Looks fun, right?” Clarke said, limping over to him with her hair still up in the towel. Her clothes clung tightly to her frame, and he forced his eyes to the window.

“Yeah, no thanks, I’ve already had my fun with rain and hills for today.”

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t bad before the falling part, admit it. You had _fun._ ” She poked him in the side for added effect.

Forcing down a probably unreasonable smile and shaking his head at her fondly, Bellamy went to change into something dry and then helped her into his room (amidst protests she was fine). While he waited for her to get dressed, he tossed his clothes into the washing machine before finding his phone – which had blessedly been left at the house with Clarke’s, since he wasn’t a _total_ idiot – and ringing up Octavia to see how she was.

“I’m fine, Bell,” she promised when he expressed worry. “We got back to Lincoln’s before it got bad. Is it okay if I crash here?”

Bellamy huffed a little, detecting the slight bit of tease in his sister’s tone. She knew he was terrible at turning off his protective older brother mode. “Well, I can’t in good judgment tell you to drive a half hour home in the storm, so yes. And besides, I do trust Lincoln, no matter what you say.”

“Whatever, big brother,” she said, probably rolling her eyes with it. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

“See you....” Bellamy trailed off, because at that moment Clarke came out of his room in dry clothes— _his_ dry clothes, specifically an old long-sleeved Gryffindor shirt and a pair of boxers from who knows what corner of his closet. His mouth felt very dry suddenly, and he quickly muttered, “Sorry, gotta go,” into the receiver before hanging up without a goodbye.

There was a solid five seconds where he stared at Clarke, trying to formulate something non-creepy to say, but she beat him to it. “Don’t get weird with me,” she told him, though he swore he could see a flush crawling down her neck. “Friends share clothes, Bell. O and I do it all the time.”

Bellamy averted his gaze nonetheless, thinking he really didn’t want to think about his sister _now,_ before swallowing hard and taking the ruined clothes from her outstretched hands. The silence felt uncomfortable already, so he went for humor. “Gryffindor, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.”

She groaned. “It was the softest thing I could find, okay? Not like you had a Slytherin one in there or I would’ve taken it.”

“I don’t know, Clarke, it seems to be growing on you already,” he teased. “Sure you don’t want to keep it and see how Gryffindor suits you?”

Faking a gag, Clarke said, “Yeah, no thanks.” Then she seemed to consider. “Although I might steal the shirt; it is actually comfy.”

Bellamy smoothly pretended that comment didn’t make his heart pop four inches out of his chest and said, “Well, do you need anything other than my shirt that you hate?”

“Mmm, I’m good, just a little tired,” she murmured, already sinking onto the couch and curling into a tiny ball against it.

Gods above, she looked so soft like that, with the sleeves covering her hands and her damp hair plastered to her cheeks and a flush still coloring her pale features. It made his stomach do cartwheels, especially with _his clothes_ in the mix. His clothes she wanted to keep.

(She really wasn’t helping with the whole _you can’t get rejected and have your heart broken if she never figures out your feelings_ thing he was trying to keep up.)

He forced himself to turn away and threw her clothes in the washer with his, then wandered towards the kitchen to look for food, since it was somehow still early afternoon. Before he could pull together any ideas, though, he could hear Clarke calling to him with a distinct pout in her voice.

“What is it, Clarke?” he asked, coming back into the living room with only a little bit of worry; Clarke never got pouty when things were actually wrong.

She was sitting up on the couch with her arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed in that cute way she got when she was sleepy. “What are you doing?”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Making food. You may be tired, but it’s still lunchtime.”

Immediately she groaned. “I don’t want food, I want a nap.”

“You can just eat it when you wake up,” he reminded her, now a little confused.

“But you have to cook the food,” she continued with a slightly exasperated tone, “and I just fell down a ditch, and that means I deserve to be cuddled while I nap.”

“What, I’m your nap provider now?” Bellamy said, trying very hard not to smile. (And failing. Definitely failing.)

“Yes, shut up,” she mumbled. Then, when he didn’t move: “Seriously, Bell, I need more body heat. You don’t even have blankets lying around.”

Bellamy paused for just a moment, then decided it couldn’t hurt – well, okay, it could definitely hurt, he was about to take a nap with the girl he also kind of wanted to raise a family with, _platonically_ – and curled up next to her. She tucked herself against his side immediately, kicking her legs onto his lap and burying her face in his neck. Knowing it soothed her, he ran a hand up and down her back, fighting hard to ignore the lack of a bra. Her muscles were unusually tense and his instinct was to try to smooth it away, but somehow he knew that wouldn’t help—that _he_ was causing it.

It was a little dizzying, and definitely too much to think about right now, so he just rested his head on her hair and pressed a soft kiss there. She smelled like she always did, like rain and shampoo and paint, but he could also smell a little bit of his soap, as well as the musk that hung around his room, and the combination turned his stomach to knots.

They didn’t speak, or really move besides an occasional shift or Bellamy’s thumb rubbing circles over her back; they just lay there, together, quietly, until they both fell asleep.

\--

Bellamy woke up to Clarke disentangling herself from him, and without thinking he tried to pull her back into his chest, mumbling, “Don’t move, you’re warm.” Then, before he could regret that action, he heard something that could’ve been a sharp intake of breath or a snort, or maybe both, and then Clarke nuzzled into his collarbone again.

He shuffled her a little closer, feeling unbearably soft considering the lightning and thunder just outside, and in a moment of weakness thought what it would be like to have this every day; to wake up beside her and see her in his shirts and pull her closer just because he wanted to. No guise, no excuses. Just them.

But despite all the signs he’d had that day (and, okay, for a long while before), he simply couldn’t picture a world where Clarke loved him back, and that reminder made him a little sad, so after just a few moments longer he gently broke free to stretch his legs and check on the weather.

When Clarke put weight on her twisted ankle, however, she nearly lost her balance, and instantly he was back in worried mode. “Does it hurt more?” he asked, already unnecessarily panicked. “Did you sleep on it funny? I could call your mom up and see what she thinks.”

“I’m _fine,_ Bellamy, don’t worry so much,” she insisted, though she did let him check over it until he agreed it was just still tender. Then he checked on the other injuries before she could stop him, which were thankfully healing up; he ran his thumb over the bandage on her forehead, biting his lip in something between guilt and sorrow. He _hated_ seeing her hurt.

“Bell,” Clarke repeated, softer now. “I promise I’m okay.”

“You’re hurt,” he replied, dropping his hand to run over the scrapes on her arms and not quite willing to meet her eyes.

“And you took care of me. You’re here. So I’m fine.” She tapped his chin until he finally looked at her, and gave him a meaningful look. “Okay?”

He knew she was asking him if he was okay as much as she was wanting him to agree with her, so he hesitated for only a moment before nodding and murmuring, “Okay.”

Still, though, he didn’t want her putting too much weight on her foot, and he didn’t think they had any crutches lying around, so he made her stay on the couch while he got food. There was little to no food available, since tomorrow was supposed to be his day to go shopping (his timing was just perfect sometimes), so he ended up making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches like the functioning adult he was. He gave one to Clarke, who wolfed it down obligingly, and stared at the window in disease. The storm wasn’t getting any better, and Octavia had taken the only car out to see Lincoln. After a check on his phone, he also was greeted with a severe storm warning for their area, and the advisement to avoid leaving homes if possible.

Great.

“Is it bad then?” Clarke asked, swallowing the last bite of her sandwich and looking at him with a frown.

“Yeah, pretty bad,” he said, still trying to think. “Report says no one’s supposed to leave where they are for now, so I, uh...I guess you’re stuck here for now.”

“You say that like it’s a curse for me to hang out with my best friend,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I was probably going to crash here anyway.”

He forced down elation at that comment, reminding himself she crashed here a lot and it hadn’t meant anything before. “Well, you’ll have to stay for the whole night, since I doubt the storm will clear up until some ungodly hour, so we’ll have you take my room and I’ll take the couch.”

Clarke immediately straightened at that, huffing indignantly. “Absolutely not. This is your house, I’m not pushing you out of your own room.”

“Clarke, the couch gives little to no support, especially when you have a bad foot,” he reminded her, “and besides, O has a loft. No way am I making you climb up that.”

She mulled his response over for a moment, and he thought maybe he’d won, but then she looked back at him and said firmly, “Fine. Then we share.”

He may have choked on nothing but air at that point. May have. “Um. What?”

“You don’t want me on the couch or the loft, and I don’t want to kick you out, so we share. Easy compromise.”

Bellamy opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t come up with anything that wasn’t _I’m desperately in love with you and I will literally not sleep if I can feel your presence that close to me in my own bed,_ so he closed it again.

“We’re adults, Bell, it’s fine,” Clarke continued, as casual as ever and apparently unaware of the heart attack he was currently having. “Plus, we’re both in our pajamas already.”

(Both in _his_ pajamas, Bellamy’s brain interjected unhelpfully.)

Then she just stood there, half-drowning in his shirt and looking simultaneously sure and awkward at the same time, and amidst the never-ending screaming going on in the back of his mind, Bellamy honestly felt _bad._ Clarke didn’t mean him any harm; it wasn’t her fault he was pathetic and horrible at handling his own feelings. It was just one night of platonic bed sharing. He could handle that.

So he nodded in agreement and Clarke honestly _beamed_ like a dream of hers had just come true and, okay, maybe he couldn’t handle this. But if he was going to go out, he was going to go out dramatically.

He helped Clarke into his room, mostly to help her foot but also to give him something productive to do, and carefully sat her down on the bed before crossing to the other side to lay down himself. The bed was pretty large, enough to lay side by side without quite touching, which was logically fortunate but...okay, fine, Bellamy was pathetic, he admitted it, he _really_ wanted to have one night of his life actually curled beside Clarke Griffin. Platonically. Whatever.

Which was why he was all kinds of surprised when Clarke rolled over to cuddle against him, hand over his heart and head tucked under his chin. He shifted a little onto his side and she took the opportunity to come closer, making herself so small he could nearly curl his body completely around her—which was maybe her goal, so he tucked his legs up, half tangling them with hers, trying to make her as comfortable as possible and careful to not bump her foot.

They were pressed up almost everywhere, puzzle pieces fitting together like they were meant to, and Bellamy could barely even _think,_ much less come up with something to say. He felt a little like he was in a dream, except not even the most delusional part of his brain could come up with a day like this.

(Well, okay, he’d also dreamed up the idea of marriage, and kids, and maybe some dogs if they could find a better house, but that was supposed to be _after_ Clarke somehow loved him back. He wasn’t even hoping for _handholding_ until then. This whole experience was about eight ballparks out of his ballpark to handle.)

After a few minutes – seconds? Hours? At this point Bellamy was struggling to hold onto the construct of time itself – Clarke lifted her head from the crook of his neck to look over his face. Her nose nearly brushed his, and the rational part of him was screaming that he needed to look away, but he was so far gone at this point he could do nothing but stare back at her, even when she moved her hand to his face to brush back his hair.

No words were exchanged, and yet Bellamy was sure Clarke was trying to tell him something with how she sifted his curls through her fingers, how her gaze flitted over his face, how she seemed so _soft,_ so comfortable, so at peace this close to him.

It made his heart stutter, for more reason than one.

Then she actually _looked at his lips,_ and his heart stopped. He’d been in enough situations to know what she was doing, but there was just no way, he had to be misreading something; after all, she was _Clarke_ and he was...well. He could come up with a thousand reasons why she never should’ve befriended him in the first place, much less....

“Clarke,” he choked out, a little desperate. He meant it to be a warning, but instead he sounded strangely close to tears. She inclined her head a little, but didn’t stop her ministrations, and he breathed in as deeply as he could, trying to calm down. “I don’t...I don’t even know where to begin, to deserve you.”

Her hand stuttered to a stop, still pressed against his cheek, but her gaze never faltered. She looked sad – heartbroken, honestly – but not quite surprised, which somehow made it all worse. Bellamy knew he had a healthy helping of self-loathing, but he didn’t want _Clarke_ to know that.

“Why would you think that?” she asked, voice carefully even.

There were so many reasons, more than he could put words to, but he couldn’t say them—not to Clarke, not to one of the only people who still believed so strongly he was good. So he dropped his gaze instead, eyes stinging and lip quivering as if trying to hold all the unspoken words back.

“Hey,” Clarke murmured, now unbearably soft. “Bell. Look at me.” She ran her thumb back and forth once across his cheekbone like a question, and when he didn’t reply she didn’t push any further, just stroked his cheek until he finally felt brave enough to look at her.

When their gazes met, she smiled at him—actually _smiled,_ soft and kind and simple, and his heart felt like it was bursting through his ribcage. He loved her _so much._

“You’re enough, okay?” she whispered, so quiet not even the air around them would be able to hear it. The words were for him alone. “You always have been. You don’t have to redeem yourself to me.”

God, she always knew what to say, always knew exactly what he needed to hear to feel whole again. It was like she could just reach into his heart and fix it, like she _wanted to,_ and his love for her swelled so big he actually felt unsteady.

He put his hand over Clarke’s, to ground himself, fingers skimming back and forth over her wrist to assure himself she was really there. “Clarke, I—” he began, wanting to express this feeling, this _thing_ to her, but the words got stuck in his throat. How could he even attempt to express what she meant to him, everything she’d done, all the moments and hope and happiness she’d given him that he never would’ve found on his own? It was impossible, but he still wanted to say _something._

But Clarke beat him to it. “I know,” she murmured, smiling a little.

He smiled back, shifting to pull her closer still and leaning their foreheads together. Her nose brushed against his, soft and undemanding, and suddenly everything felt...okay. Like he could be happy and not have to worry about regretting it later. So he tilted his head to press his lips against hers, and she sighed a little into his mouth while he cupped her shoulder blade in his hand, and it was...God, it was so much more than okay, it was _everything._

It was home.

When she drew away, Clarke held his face in her hands and just looked at him, softly, like there was nothing else, and it hit him all over again. She loved him. She _loved_ him. The realization was so overwhelming he couldn’t contain it anymore, and he buried his face in her neck to hide his grin.

Clarke played absently with his hair, tapping on his head in a questioning gesture, and he mumbled, “Gimme a second.”

She laughed a little. “I’m in love with a giant nerd, aren’t I?”

That didn’t really help the whole _I’m smiling too big to function_ thing, but he managed to reply, “And I’m in love with a mythical creature.”

He could actually _feel_ her heart skip a beat, but her voice was still steady when she teased, “Like I said—nerd.”

Bellamy’s only reply was to nuzzle closer to her, draping his arm lazily around her waist, and they fell asleep like that—legs tangled, hearts beating inches apart, Clarke drawing circles in his hair. Together.

\--

When Bellamy opened his eyes, it was to soft sunlight—and by sunlight, he meant Clarke, fingers still loosely tangled in his hair with a smile blooming across her face when she saw he was awake. He smiled back and shifted to kiss her, soft and lazy, securing a hand on her neck to keep her close. At first they were grinning so badly it was more teeth-smacking than anything, but eventually they got comfortable and Bellamy felt his mind go blank. Kissing Clarke was already one of his favorite things – although, to be fair, _everything_ about Clarke was one of his favorite things – and he didn’t really plan on stopping.

Well, until he bumped Clarke’s foot on accident and she pulled back, wincing, because yeah, at that point he figured it was a good time to stop.

“Your foot okay?” he asked, frowning and brushing a hand across her cheek.

The answer was probably that it was fine, if the overdramatic look and half-smirk she gave him was any indication. “Oh, awful. I doubt I can walk.”

“Hm,” he mused, failing to keep a serious tone. “I’ll have to carry you around then, will I?”

“Sounds like effort to me. We can just not get up.”

He leaned to brush their foreheads together, humming. “Alas, food is important. I’ll bring it back here, though, if you’re feeling so weak.”

“Oh, don’t move, you’re warm,” she complained, latching onto him, and he laughed a little at his own words being tossed back at him.

Carefully prying her hands off his arms, he gave her a quick kiss – he really hoped the excitement of that would stick around for a while, it was currently the best thing that had ever happened to him – and murmured, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”

Soon was about two minutes, because he was too hyped on Clarke-induced energy to really focus on anything, and it was still dark since they went to bed rather early (not his fault, time had no meaning when Clarke was over), so he just grabbed a block of cheese and brought it back, inducing a true belly laugh from Clarke.

“Master Chef Bellamy strikes again,” she giggled, sitting up as he slid back under the blankets. “First peanut butter sandwiches, now cheese. What next? A single grape?”

“I’ll have you know we don’t have _any_ grapes, thank you very much,” Bellamy grumbled, but he couldn’t hold onto his irritability for very long because Clarke grinned and pecked him on the mouth.

“I love you,” she sighed, like she couldn’t get enough of the words.

A soft tingle ran down Bellamy’s spine and he bent to kiss her again, dropping the cheese to secure a hand against her hip. It was probably an excessive amount of kissing, but he couldn’t help it, and Clarke didn’t seem to mind.

When he pulled away, his eyes caught on her – his – shirt again, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I almost forgot you were wearing this.”

“Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Because you seemed pretty unable to stop looking at it when I first stepped out of your room.”

“You caught that, huh?” he said, running a thumb over the fabric at her waist.

She smirked. “There seem to be a lot of things between us I’ve noticed that you haven’t.”

“Clearly. If I had I would’ve pushed you down a muddy hill months ago.”

“Or you could’ve just asked me out. That would’ve been a much less painful option.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he teased, then sobered, pulling her against him and tucking his nose into her hair. “I think I did notice, but I just...I didn’t even dare to believe that...that you might....”

She sighed, winding her arms tightly around his shoulders in that way that always made him feel safe. “I know, Bellamy. I know. But I love you, okay? That’s never going to change. You’re always going to be my person.”

“I love you, too,” he murmured, too overcome with emotion to say anything else.

“Yeah, I know that, too,” she said, the smile evident in her voice. Her lips pressed quickly to his temple, and then she slowly pulled him down with her until they were lying on their sides.

“Rest,” she whispered now, pressing a kiss to his hair as he shifted to get more comfortable, still tucked as close to her as he could. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll always be here.”

For some reason that made him want to cry, but instead he nodded into her shoulder, pressing a tiny kiss there, and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Clarke’s breathing and the knowledge that he was loved, that he deserved it, lull him into a peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> there is to be no judgment on bellamy's house. i asked alex and she said gryffindor. final answer.
> 
> ~@sherlockvowsontheriverstyx on tumblr~


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